“Why should I?” she whispered back. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“I can do it quick and easy, or I can do it so you’ll be in pain for hours,” he replied emotionlessly. “That’s all the choice you’ve got. It’s up to you.”

She considered making a break for the door, but he seemed to read her mind and suddenly grabbed her arm. She slumped back, her mind racing, searching for possibilities of escape but finding none. She had already decided that she wasn’t leaving the tent like a sheep going to slaughter, and that if worse came to worst, she’d make him kill her in front of two thousand witnesses—but since he was operating with the Swagman’s knowledge and consent, she couldn’t be sure that anyone would lift a finger to stop him—and indeed, she suspected that they wouldn’t.

“You’d think some people would learn their lesson by now, wouldn’t you?” demanded Father William, his voice rising. “You’d think they’d learn that you can’t pull the wool over God’s eyes, that you can’t hide an infection from His heavenly clinic!”

He glared out at the audience.

“That’s what you’d think—but some people just never learn.”

Suddenly Father William’s face was filled with fury.

“You’d think they’d at least have the brains not to try to do Satan’s work in the house of the Lord!” he roared, drawing a pistol and firing a blast in Virtue’s direction.

Several members of the audience screamed, a few bellowed curses, and most of them—including Virtue—dove to the floor.

There was total confusion for the next thirty seconds. Then people began getting up, asking what had happened. When Virtue regained her feet, she noticed that the gaunt man was dead, his left eye socket burnt to a crisp.

“Don’t touch him!” thundered Father William as other members of the congregation began noticing the victim. “There’s paper on that man. He belongs to me and the Lord.”

The preacher looked out over the audience.

“The Lord is my eyes and ears, and there’s not a lot that escapes the two of us.” Father William paused. “The Lord steadies my hand and aims my guns. Blessed is the name of the Lord!”

He replaced his pistol in its holster.

“There’s an object lesson to be learned here, my children—and that is that Good can come from Evil. Once I take this sinner’s scalp and turn it in, he’ll have done a hell of a lot more for the Lord by dying than he ever thought of doing while he was alive.” He lowered his head. “Let’s say a brief, silent prayer for this poor sinful bastard’s pitch-black soul, and wish Satan the best of luck with him.”